Crack Shots
by Agent 0r4ng3
Summary: A number of oneshots, varying levels of amusement found within. Crack. G1-bayverse, multiple crack-pairings – you've been warned!
1. Tracks is a Con?

So, came inside, did ya? None of these oneshots are really in line with any one universe, and a lot of them came from the transformers pairing crack generator. Once I saw a few of the things it came up with, I _had_ to write something. :)

Namely, this is for my own amusement, and to keep me procrastinating! No, really, I do it when I'm feeling in a silly mood. So, updates could be _(read:_ will be) sporadic.

If you want to send in requests, go right ahead!

I like the title – its lame, I know.

**DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Transformers at all. This applies for the whole story, such as it is...**

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**Warnings: **None that I can think of...

**Prompt: **Tracks / Red Alert / defiant

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The blue corvette stormed down the halls, optics flashing with rage. He'd just gotten back from a mission – a filthy, dirty mission that involved checking for Decepticon activity in a swamp. A _swamp,_ of all places. Prowl was just jealous of his shiny paint, and was getting his revenge in that sneaky, underhanded way of his. It had been impossible to stay his gleaming, polished self.

He'd hand his report in after he was clean. No one should see him while he was so filthy.

Hound – his partner for the mission – had loved every second of the _swamp_, the crazed fragger.

Tracks thought that Ratchet had left a few screws loose from his last examination.

Upon return, the first thing he did was go to the washracks, and clean off all the disgusting organic junk. Then he ran into a snafu – namely, the premium grade wax that he used to keep looking so perfect, was gone. The wax had special nanites in it to improve and boost the lustre of the paint, which made it doubly expensive.

Immediately, his thoughts jumped to the other mech on board the Ark that might have pussy-footed off with his precious wax.

Sunstreaker – the mech was even more self-obsessed than himself. True, the golden mech might be shiny and pretty, but it wasn't validated.

_Anyone_ with a clear processor and working optics could tell that Tracks had the better form and paintjob. Really, Sunstreaker was just flogging a dead horse in hoping that others would cow to him – that, and the mech would pulverize anyone who said differently.

Tracks sniffed, before comming Sideswipe, the little bastard who he _knew_ had taken off with his wax.

_-Sideswipe, I know you pander to Sunstreaker, but doing your brother's dirty work is just despicable.-_

_-Huh? Tracks, I think you've cracked,-_ the red mech sent back, sounding confused, the glitch.

_-My wax,- _he sent back pointedly.

_-What about it?_- The red twin still sounded confused.

_-Don't play coy, it doesn't suit you,- _he sniffed.

_-The frag are you on? I haven't touched your wax,- _Sideswipe sent back, starting to sound irritated. _–'Sides, I'm on a mission with Sunny. Have been for three orns now.-_

The little twit was lying, clearly. He'd probably had someone else abscond with his precious wax to draw suspicion off of his little red-afted self.

He dropped the comm. link, determined to go to Prime himself if he had to. That wax had cost him a fortune, and he was _not_ going to let it go this easily.

His perfect finish deserved only the best, after all.

Stalking the orange halls – orange, really, who came up with _that _eyesore? – he prowled down to the Security Director's room.

If anyone had video of the room, it would be Red Alert – and there had to be video detailing _who_ had taken the wax.

He commed in, _-Red Alert to Tracks. May I speak to you about a… delicate matter?-_

There was a moment of silence, in which he waited outside the door, knowing the mech was probably just being paranoid, again.

_-Very well,- _the Security Director finally answered.

Red Alert met him at the door – a crazed mix of locks, scans and wires criss-crossing the area in front of him. The mech himself was barely poking out of the room, optics focussed nervously on the blue mech. Cameras lined the walls behind him, detailing the daily lives of the mechs who lived in the ARK

"Red Alert, I was hoping you could help me," he started, trying for some suave charm. Who _wouldn't_ find his blue and red paintjob appealing?

The Security Director twitched. "Nothing you say will change my mind," he said.

Tracks felt his faceplates crinkle slightly in consternation, before smoothing them out. Crinkles in metal would be _so_ unfortunate on a vision of perfection such as himself.

"It's nothing illegal – I just want to view the camera of my room for the duration of my mission," he cajoled, trying to convince the mech to help him. Surely, Red would see the importance of him staying as gorgeous as ever?

Immediately, the mech was screeching, "Security breach, security breach!" at the top of his vocal output levels. Tracks winced, dimming audial input swiftly. He did _not_ need to see Ratchet about his audials – the mech had a thing for chucking wrenches, and his paint was too perfect to dent.

"What the slag, Red?" he growled out, wondering if Ratchet needed to take another look at the frantic Security Director. Red continued screeching, and frantically comming Prime.

"We have a breach, Prime! And the perpetrator's confessed! I'm coming up to your office now!"

Warily, Tracks eyed the mech that had appeared to 'help' Red Alert.

"Don't touch my paint – it's freshly washed," he sniffed, looking over Inferno's dulled paint. Clearly, the mech had no idea what wax to use to best suit his paint. Poor fragger. Not everyone could look as good as him though, clearly.

Inferno shrugged his shoulders – a human gesture he'd picked up. "Red's a little tempermental today, sorry."

Red and Inferno escorted the confounded Corvette into Prowl's office – were they actually taking this nut seriously? No one as beautiful as himself could be a spy – it was impossible.

This settled it – Prowl was still jealous and making him go through with this farce due to his rampant jealousy.

Prowl sat behind his desk, white and black paint gleaming in the lighting. Immediately, he was comparing it to his own usually lustrous paint. His came up lacking against the Datsun.

Had Prowl taken his wax? And was now hauling him in to rub in the difference in their glossy paint?

That must be it.

Prowl spoke. "Tracks. You have not handed in your report from the last mission."

He pulled the datapad out of subspace, and handed it to the second in command wordlessly.

Prowl placed it on top of another one, and then set Red Alert with a steely look.

"You say there is a security breach?"

The red and white Security Director nodded frantically, eyeing Tracks mistrustfully.

"Yes, Prowl! I have evidence!"

"Evidence of what?" Tracks managed, wondering why this had to happen to him. If he was polished and waxed, he was sure that this ordeal wouldn't feel quite as terrible.

As it stood, he couldn't bear looking at Prowl – the shiny, fresh-wax appearance nearly proving too much.

"Collaboration with the Decepticons!" The Security Director declared, pointing a digit at him.

Tracks gaped at him. "Me? A Decepticon?"

Prowl interjected. "If you could provide your proof of such allegations?" The Datsun's vocal output was steely. To accuse someone of being a spy for the other side… Those were serious allegations.

He sounded cool and collected, the gleaming paint taunting Tracks.

With some aplomb, the red and white Lamborghini sent copies of video files, and produced a tub. Track's eyes narrowed at the tub, and widened at the mech.

"My wax!" He moved forwards to grab the tub, but Red Alert snatched it back, a suspicious look on his faceplates.

Tracks halted.

"Why do you have my wax?"

He flipped to the video that Red had sent to the occupants of the room, and played it.

It was just video footage of him, walking the halls of the ARK, recharging, and grabbing a cube of energon in the rec room. He noted with pride and longing how sharp he looked, paint sparkling brighter than all the other mechs in the room. Why, he was the most handsome mech out there, it was proved.

Prowl flipped a glance at the Security Director.

"And how does this evidence prove his guilt?" the police Datsun said mildly, door wings flaring slightly.

"He's clearly a spy!"

"Based on what grounds?" Prowl asked, servos sitting on the desk.

Tracks could barely tear his eyes from the wax – his servos itched to reach out and grab it. Prowl was _not_ the prettiest one on board, _he_ was.

"In every shot, his paint is so bright it makes him hard to watch! He's hiding messages for the Decepticons in his wax! And the way he's been doing this is with this special wax! I had Wheeljack analyze it, and there are nanites in the mix. Those nanites could be programmed to take messages back and forth. If these nanites were scraped off in battle, they could be read by the Decepticons! He's a spy! He knew I was on to him, he's come for me!" The (clearly crazed) Security Director babbled, nearly hiding behind Inferno, pointing at Tracks, who was half focused on the wax, and half on the Lamborghini.

Prowl flicked a glance at Tracks, before looking back at Red Alert. The Datsun (shiny fragger) spoke.

"Did you remove Track's wax from his quarters?"

The Lamborghini nodded furiously, "Yes, Prowl – he's a spy, or at least in alliance with the Decepticons! Optimus needs to know!"

Prowl looked over at Tracks, noting the gleam of blue optics, focused on the wax.

"Removing a potentially dangerous substance from another's quarters might have proved hazardous to yourself if the material was being used to transmit to Decepticons."

Red froze, staring at the second in command. The thought had clearly not crossed his processors.

"I could be transmitting data to the Decepticons _right now_," he gasped out, looking like he was about to start stripping off armour in Prowl's office.

"However, I do not believe that to be the case," Prowl pointed out mildly.

"I'm not a Decepticon!" Tracks finally managed, optics still following the bounding tub of wax that Red was so carelessly moving around. What if he dropped it? Then his processor lodged on what Red Alert had confessed to.

"You took my wax?"

Red latched optics on Tracks, looking terrified. "This was your plan all along, wasn't it? To have me transmit data about the Autobots to the Decepticons!" He backed away, nearly running into Inferno. The red mech merely placed his servos on the smaller mech's shoulders, trying to calm the excitable Security Director down.

"I am not a spy," Tracks said, sounding annoyed and insulted. As if the Decepticons had anything to offer him that he didn't have already. He was perfection in a mech – and Megatron had a bad habit of injuring those under him, which would be a travesty to his immaculate paintjob.

Prowl steepled his digits. "Red Alert. Do you have any other proof of Autobot Tracks' alleged activity?"

The Security Director faltered for a moment, before shaking his head, suspicious optics on Tracks.

Prowl continued. "Please transmit a copy of Wheeljack's assessment of the nanites."

Tracks' optics widened in horror. "How much did he use for testing?" He managed.

Red Alert sniffed. "The smallest amount possible – I didn't want to turn his lab into a massive transmitter for the Decepticons."

Prowl spoke then. "There is no evidence of a transmitting system located in the wax, nor of any nanites other than gloss-enhancing nanites. Tracks is cleared from suspicion of being a Decepticon sympathizer, and you are required to return his wax to him," he finished, watching Red Alert.

"But Prowl!" The Lamborghini protested. Tracks grasped the tub of wax happily, already planning his immediate waxing, processor a million miles from the office.

"Furthermore, removing articles from another's quarters is prohibited according to section eight, paragraph four. The punishment for this is ordinarily extra monitor duty time. However, under the circumstances, I am assigning you washrack cleaning duties for an orn. Dismissed."

Red Alert looked like he was going to contest the order, when the Datsun's door wings flared upwards slightly.

The Security Director's optics landed on the second in command's shiny, shiny paint.

Red Alert nearly fritzed on the spot, racing out of the room. "Security breach, security breach! Prowl's been compromised!"


	2. War Stories are Dangerous For Kup

**AN: **This prompt is really short. Like, drabble-short. Normally, I don't do such things (as in, the characters start chattering and not shutting up, and all of a sudden, the thing is 4k), but this one is actually really short. Enjoy?

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**Warnings: **None come to mind. And I just wrote it. Um... yeah, nothing.

**Prompt: **Kup / First Aid / monotony

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First Aid wondered if it would be okay to remove Kup's vocal synthesizer while he worked on him. Or knock the mech offline. Ratchet wouldn't mind, would he?

Really, the old war hero never shut up. It was always about him and some small contingent, meeting the Allicons and dancing with them, as well as reciting the universal greeting.

This was not the first time First Aid had heard this story. This was not the hundredth time First Aid had heard this story.

For Primus' sake, he was starting to dream this story! He was starting to hear the universal greeting everywhere he went; everytime he went into recharge, it was _there,_ waiting.

He was going nuts. And bolts too.

Unfortunately, the old 'bot needed a lot of repairs, (Primus, the mech seemed to always be losing bits and pieces!) and Ratchet always said that the practice was good for his apprentice. Personally, First Aid thought it was because his mentor would offline the old warrior before listening to his story over and over.

Everyone who said the old mech was entertaining was glitched. He only had one story (that he'd ever told First Aid, at least), and by this point, it was more than monotonous.

Sometimes he wished he wasn't such a passive mech. His gestalt mates – mainly Blades – were all for fighting the mech and shutting him up. But First Aid knew that he'd be the one putting the ancient mech back together, so it was a dumb idea. He told Blades as much.

Kup seemed to fall apart at the easiest provocation. He could transform, and throw out a shoulder joint, or drink a cube of energon too fast and wrench a backstrut. It was enough to drive a medic to madness. Mainly because there was absolutely nothing that First Aid could do about it.

When he'd spoken to Ratchet, the older medic had told him that they didn't have enough pieces to give Kup a full body work over, so he'd just have to replace each piece as he needed to, for practice.

He dreaded each time the old warrior was in the repair bay, chattering away about the damn Allicons and the universal greeting. By this time, he had the story memorized.

The young Protectobot was hailed by Ratchet on his internal comm. –_Kup's here for some maintenance. His left patellar lateral piston isn't firing right. I'm sending him to you while I work on 'Jack.-_

_-Yes, sir,- _First Aid answered, dreading the inevitable war story. Kup hobbled into the room, and immediately First Aid was helping him, unwilling to see him in pain.

"Did I ever tell you about the time-"

First Aid's digits twitched, joints deep into the metal knee. He made it halfway through, bearing the war story with a patient tedium. When Kup started telling him about the Allicons and the universal greeting (for the two hundred and twenty-ninth time), First Aid snapped.

With a quick flick of his other, non-occupied hand, he jabbed the needle deep into a line, injecting the material in a quick push. Kup never knew what hit him.

First Aid finished the knee repairs leisurely, and sighed, enjoying the silence immensely. No crazed old mech, jabbering away about Allicons and dancing with Rodimus Prime (oh, the processor images on _that_ one – Primus, Kup was twenty times older than Roddy! He was falling to pieces! He was probably losing bits and pieces of himself as he moved; each step could be his last!) and talking about the fragging universal greeting.

"Bah-weep-Graaaaagnah wheep mini bong," the apprentice medic chanted, staring at the unconscious mech splayed on his table, visor flickering sharply. He flicked a glance at the door, liking the feel of the words on his glossa. "Bah-weep-Graaaaagnah wheep mini bong. Bah-weep-Graaaaagnah wheep mini bong. Bah-weep-Graaaaagnah wheep mini bong."

It had a certain ring to it.

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Sideswipe sauntered into the med bay, ready to duck.

He was puzzled when there was no whizzing wrench, sailing past his head. The medic was standing in front of one of the rooms, staring into the window. The red twin moved forwards, puzzled, and curious as to what the medic was watching so intently.

"Ratchet?" he called out, calling to his twin through the bond. ::_Come quick, Sunny, Ratchet's staring into space!::_

::_Don't call me that!:: _Sunny snapped. ::_I'm on my way.::_

Sideswipe waved a servo in front of the medic's optics. "You okay, Ratch?"

The medic blinked, and then turned to him. "I need a new apprentice."

Sideswipe felt his processor stutter. Hatchet had finally snapped, and killed First Aid!

They'd all knew it was coming – no mech could take the undiluted wrath of Ratchet without eventually becoming a casualty.

"Stashed the body in the spare room, huh? Amateur. Shame about Aid, he really had promise."

He glanced into the room, to see how bad it was when his processor nearly fritzed, hooked on the image presented in front of him.

"Holy… What the slag happened to him?" Sideswipe wondered.

Ratchet shrugged.

They both watched the mech in the room silently, until Sunstreaker showed up.

Sideswipe grabbed him, leaning a chin on his twin's shoulder. "So, Aid's gone off the deep end."

Sunstreaker flicked an unimpressed glance at his moron. "Really, it was just a matter of time."

Sideswipe shoved him at the window in the door, ignoring the vain mech's snarled complaints to watch the paint.

Sunstreaker stilled when he saw what was in the room.

"The Hatchet strikes again," the red twin said gleefully, dancing out of the way so Sunny could look.

Sunstreaker shot a glance at the white medic then returned to watching the spectacle.

Jazz waltzed into the room. "So, ya offed Aid, huh?" The saboteur glanced into the room, and his visor flashed.

"Heh," the saboteur chortled, "He finally snapped, huh? 'Bout time, Primus, Ah thought he'd never crack," he proclaimed, dancing out of the room gleefully. "Smokey'd better pay up!" were his last words as he left the med bay. Ratchet was still in shock.

The twins stared after him, and then into the room. "They were betting on Aid having a breakdown?" Sunstreaker asked, wondering at the sanity of the third in command.

"So… Jazz is the one who caused Aid to have… _that-"_ Sideswipe gestured to the room "- happen? _Primus,_ Sunny, save me from Jazz!"

Sunstreaker reset his optics, staring at the insane apprentice, muttering to himself and dancing around the room, visor flashing wildly, needle clutched in his servos. Kup lay on the table, in stasis.

Apparently, one could go insane from fixing too many mechs. Primus knew it had happened with Ratchet – soon they'd have a dancing, singing medic, and a wrench-chucking medic. Primus save them all.

Yup, there was no question about it. Being a medic was much more dangerous than being a frontline warrior.

* * *

Kup onlined his optics, a grin immediately curling his faceplates. Sure, he was tied up in some dark area, wrapped so tightly in filament that he could barely twitch a digit. But it had been worth it.

He'd never even suspected that the pacifistic little medic would have the guts to actually offline him (and then tie him up and throw him in a dark area). He'd suspected that the little guy would have merely locked his vocal synthesizer offline for a while.

He commed Jazz first. –_Told you I could get him to crack,- _he boasted. –_Get me my cut, would ya?-_

_-Ah'll get ya your cut soon as Ah can. Nice work, Kup.-_

_-Thanks, Jazz. Any way you could get me out of wherever I am?-_

Jazz snickered. _–Nope. Aid's watching tha' closet like an eagle, watching an' pacin' intently. Ah think he thinks you'll fall apart an' start singing if he lets you out of optics range.-_

_-Well, slag. He's never going to let me out of the closet with how many times I've fallen apart on him.-_

_-'Fraid so. Jazz out.-_ Jazz sounded delighted. After all, they'd both won quite a bit of cash from Smokey. The diversionary tactician had bet against Kup managing to get First Aid to snap. He should have known not to bet against Jazz.

Ratchet was next. _–You owe me, Ratchet. You didn't think he'd knock me into stasis!- _Kup chuckled.

Ratchet grumbled. _–He's a known pacifist. I should have known an old 'bot like you would fight dirty. How in the Pit did you manage to get so wrecked up?-_

_-Takes skill, Ratchet. A lot of skill. After all, s'not like we're all falling apart. Takes_ real_ skill to be falling apart _all_ the time.-_

_-If you've permanently harmed my apprentice, I'm never helping you again.-_

_-Yeah, I'll make sure you get your part of the cut, Ratch.-_

_-Hmph. You better. Ratchet out.-_

He commed Smokescreen last. _–Hey, Smokey, I told you the two hundred and twenty-ninth time'd be the charm!-_

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**AN**: Poor First Aid. Didn't stand a chance.

It was supposed to end after Aid snapped, and then my brain when, "But 0range! He snapped because it was a bet! You have to put that in there!" Ah well. I like it. I smile when I read it. Tell me. Did you smile, even once?

If you want, send in a request, and I'll see about writing a little crack, just for you. :)


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